Rage: The Thunder Rolls
by Tanya Reed
Summary: Rage is a story about what happens when a person who denies his emotions finally gives in to them. It is also a story about how protectiveness towards the ones we love can make us do uncharacteristic things.
1. Chapter 1

Rage: The Thunder Rolls

by Tanya Reed

Here's another of my oldies. A couple of people have mentioned the fact that it's not on so here it comes. It's rated Teen for violence. Here are my original story notes, as usual:

Pairings are Fraser/Thatcher (are you starting to see a pattern in my writing yet?) Oh, and this story takes place between 'Red, White, or Blue' and 'Flashback'. Spoiler warnings for ATQH, RWorB, WATE, and The Promise. I want to thank my betas Lisa/Gypsy and Amanda. They were great betas. I also have to thank them separately--Lisa for giving me half of my title, and Amanda for being willing to answer any number of stupid questions at any time of the day or night. _Bows._ Thank you kindly, ladies, for your help.

Disclaimers: Oh, Alliance-all characters are thine, but the ideas are all mine.

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There was an Eagle's song playing somewhere.

He cocked his head to the side, listening. It sounded like it was coming from Constable Turnbull's office. It was quite loud and Constable Fraser wondered if it was disturbing the rest of the Consulate. Slowly rubbing a thumb over his eyebrow, he wondered if it would be impolite to ask Turnbull to turn it own. In the end, it was the Inspector who decided him, even though she wasn't even in the room. Today was her first day back after two days of sick leave, and she didn't need to be disturbed.

The decision made, Fraser got up from his desk, neatly placing his pen to the side of the file he'd been working on. Being in a hurry was no excuse to be messy. Diefenbaker's head rose as Ben did. "It's all right, Dief. I'll be right back. Try not to eat anything while I'm gone." The wolf let out a low half whine of injured pride and the Mountie almost smiled.

Fraser didn't make it to Turnbull's office. He was about half way there when he saw Inspector Thatcher's secretary coming towards him, a determined look on his face.

"Constable Fraser?"

"Yes?"

"_She_ wants to see you."

"Understood."

Then Fraser continued on his way, changing his destination. It was not a surprise that Inspector Thatcher wanted to see him. After all, she had been gone two days. She ran things with a fist of iron, and those two days probably had her imagining all kinds of disasters. In truth, no disasters had occurred, though there had been a...situation. Reaching the Inspector's door, Fraser paused a moment, telling himself that he would _not _smell her from across the room. It was unprofessional and she would not want it--but sometimes it was hard. Before what had happened on the train, Fraser believed that the Inspector kept wild flowers in her office. Now he knew this was not the case.

Politely, he knocked. A cold voice told him to enter and he did so, removing his Stetson.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, Constable. Where is your report on the last two days?"

"I was just finishing it up, ma'am..."

"And what's this I hear about a goat?"

Fraser looked up, flushing. "Well, you see, it was like this...He didn't mean to eat Turnbull's hat, I'm sure, and Diefenbaker was only trying to protect your office, sir. I'm sure the Russian Consulate..."

"Fraser," she cut in sharply, "why was there a goat in my Consulate?"

He stopped in mid explanation, slowly turning his hat in his hands. "Constable Turnbull did a favor for the Russian Consulate. They decided to repay him with a goat."

"Ah." She lifted an eyebrow. "And the problem with the Russian Consulate now?"

"I was going to go offer them a formal apology this afternoon, ma'am."

"Good. I trust this incident will be covered completely in your report." Her tone clearly stated that she couldn't leave the children alone for one minute without them getting into trouble.

"Yes, sir," Fraser replied, looking directly into her face for the first time. She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, yet he let his eyes wander over her features. They stopped their exploration under her right cheekbone. Was that a bruise?

Inspector Thatcher's voice rose again as she began to chastise him. He never heard a word of it, however--except sentry duty--as his mind began to pay attention to her body. Yes, that was a bruise, about two days old, he'd say, still black but light and fading to yellow. Of course, it was covered with make up, and if he hadn't been searching her face, he might not have seen it.

'Yes, ma'am' and 'no, sir' came from him automatically in all the right places as he continued to study her. His body remained at strict attention, as his eyes wandered lower to the exposed opening at her throat. He almost winced as he saw, peeking out from the fabric, another bruise. This one was darker, uglier than the first. It was about the same age, but its purple and black colors looked like a stain on her skin. A laceration, puckered at the edges, ran down one side of it. Had the Inspector been in an accident? That would account for her two days off. Inspector Thatcher _never_ took time off.

"Is that understood, Constable?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now is there any other news you want to tell me before I read it in your report?"

Fraser tore his thoughts from her injuries and thought about her question. "Constable Turnbull fell down the stairs, but thankfully is uninjured." Did her mouth twitch? "The French Consulate dropped off some wine--which Turnbull drank, causing him to fall down the stairs. Lt. Welsh wished to discuss a matter with you about a Canadian prisoner. I washed the curtains in the Queen's bedroom..." he trailed off.

"Is that all, Constable?"

"I believe so, sir."

She nodded absently, reaching up to tuck a stray dark strand behind her ear. Usually, such a simple gesture of humanity would have thrilled Fraser, but this time, his eyes were riveted to her forearm.

As her arm raised, the fabric of her blouse slipped down her wrist to reveal a mottling of bruises. Concern almost made Fraser break his pose. The only thing that stopped him was knowing that she would not welcome it and would probably scorn it.

"You are dismissed. I expect your report on my desk in an hour."

"Yes, sir." He gave a little nod and turned to go. He reached for the doorknob, but could not turn it. Images of her in a car as it crumpled in on her or of her falling off of someone's fire escape filled his head. He had to know. Was she in pain? Slowly, knowing if he said the wrong thing he'd get a tongue lashing and maybe another year of sentry duty, Fraser turned.

"Ma'am?"

"Yes, Fraser?" She sounded tired.

"Um...I was just wondering...By any chance did you...How did..."

"Just spit it out, Constable." Her voice was like ice, but he pressed on anyway.

"Are you all right?"

Her eyes widened. "Am I all right?"

"Yes, sir. Are you injured?"

Those same dark eyes now narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if you don't mind me saying so, I noticed that you have several bruises and abrasions. That led me to believe that you had in some way been injured."

"I'm fine, Constable."

He just looked at her. The room was silent for several moments, the only sound their breaths as they mingled in the air.

Finally, she replied, "If you must know, Fraser," Her annoyance was plain. "I fell. I was at home two days ago, got up and felt woozy. As you know, I just got over the flu. The dizziness caused me to fall against my coffee table. It's all very embarrassing and I would appreciate it if you didn't bring it up again."

"Yes, sir," he agreed. "Sorry, sir."

Satisfied, he turned and left the room.

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Did he know? Could he tell? Meg sat in her chair staring into space. His face had betrayed nothing; he had seemed satisfied with her answer, but with Fraser, you never could be sure. What he knew was not always present in his eyes--those eyes that saw everything.

Her gaze wandered down to her arm. Slowly, and gently too because it was still tender, Meg drew her blouse down to expose the skin. Her face flushed as she regarded the blue and purple marks, impotent anger racing through her. When the test came, she had not been strong enough.

It had been a hard, painful lesson. She caressed the skin, not flinching, then drew the fabric back over it.

Her mind went back to Fraser. He had seen them. After all the trouble she had taken to conceal them, some carelessness on her part had revealed them. She wondered which he had seen first, where he had been looking when concern made him take note.

Still, she told herself he _had_ seemed satisfied with her answer. There was concern there, yes, but no overt interest. If he knew, surely...It was in Fraser's nature. That she did not want. How would she face him if he knew? How could he respect and take orders from someone who...This time, the burning in her cheeks was shame.

Next time, she _would_ be strong enough.


	2. Chapter 2

Rage: The Thunder Rolls

By Tanya Reed

Disclaimer: I still don't own Due South.

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As Fraser walked into the 27th Precinct, something was nagging at him. He didn't know what it was, just that something was...not right. His mind was so intent on puzzling out his feeling that he did not see any of the young--and not so young--ladies batting their eyelashes his way.

Diefenbaker, however, took advantage of his distracted state to coax two donuts and a cookie from the station's occupants.

"Hi, Fraser!" Detective Ray Vecchio smiled, lighting up his eyes, as he saw his friend approach.

"Good morning, Ray."

"Something wrong, Benny?" Ray asked as Fraser sat.

"No, nothing." He pushed the sense of wrongness away, focusing on Ray and the wolf sitting on his foot. "What is on the agenda for today?"

Ray frowned. "It's not pretty. Someone murdered a hooker near that run down apartment building you live in."

"Did this prostitute have a name?"

"Aimee something."

Quickly, Fraser ran through the names of the young streetwalkers he knew. Aimee didn't seem to be among them. Still, somebody's daughter had died, someone with a mother, father, sisters, brothers.

"How?"

"Strangulation. She was found in an alley two blocks from your place." Ray took out some pictures and handed them across the desk.

Fraser took them and clinically searched for clues. The girl was about eighteen with long blond hair. From the angle of the bruises on her neck, the assailant had to be at least 6'3, or she had been sitting on a chair when she died. One of her white shoes was missing, the other lacked a heel; her dress was shredded and torn.

Near the body was something in the dirt, but it was only in one photograph, and that was not very clear.

"What is that, Ray?"

"What's what?"

Fraser handed the picture back and pointed to it. "A blip on the camera?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, maybe a good look at the crime scene will clue us in. Ready, Benny?"

Fraser gave a nod and got to his feet. Diefenbaker stood up as well, vacating Fraser's shoe. Together, the three of them left the station, Fraser forgetting that something had been bothering him.

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The area was deserted when they got there. Yellow police tape blocked off the alley and there was a faint disturbance where they found the girl's body. Fraser's eyes roamed the alley carefully, taking it in. The missing heel lay by a trashcan, but other than that --on the surface--it seemed as if nothing had happened there. He walked slowly around the alley, stopping occasionally to look at the dirt and broken pavement. Most of the evidence had been obliterated by the feet of the Chicago PD.

"The body was found here, Ray?"

"Yup."

Fraser knelt and examined the ground. There, buried in the dirt, he found what he had seen in the picture. Triumphantly, he held it up for inspection.

"What's that?"

"It seems to be a piece of pen or automatic pencil." He licked it, ignoring Ray's gag face.

"Traces of ink, not lead. The pieces are sharp so it was broken recently. There are traces of blood here, it was broken on flesh. Also, Ray, note the style. Not everyone would carry a pen like this."

"Fancy."

"Very."

"So, Benny, we find out who sells these things and it gives us a head start."

"If we cannot get any identifiable fingerprints, that would be the next logical step."

As the two of them headed towards the Riv, Ray remembered something he had heard through the grapevine. "Hey, I heard the Dragon Lady had a hot date the other night."

"Ray, I've asked you not to call her that."

"Yeah, well, Inspector Thatcher, then. This big business man that Elaine knows was bragging about it to her. Guess it was the whole nine yards--dinner, dancing, and you know what comes next."

"Next?"

Ray just rolled his eyes. "Wonder what it took to thaw her out."

"Ray, I don't think it is appropriate to discuss..."

"Lighten up, Benny. Don't you even want to know his name?"

"No."

"Yes, you do."

"I most certainly do not."

"Oh, yes, you do. His name's Glen Burrell. He's a rich guy with enough dough to have apartments in three cities. He's also Canadian." Ray nudged Fraser.

"What the Inspector does in her spare time is none of my business. Now shall we find out who the vendor is for this particular pen?"

"Sure, Benny. Whatever you say."

Fraser followed Ray to the Riv feeling slightly annoyed. He wasn't sure if the annoyance came from Ray's teasing or from the fact that Ray had thought he would be interested in the details of Inspector Thatcher's date. He wasn't. Not at all. Well, not really. Um...maybe a little, but that was no reason for Ray to be talking about 'thawing out the Dragon Lady'.

They rode back to the station in silence, though Ray had a wide grin on his face. Fraser had turned his mind from the teasing and was ruminating on the murder. He was going over the few scarce clues. There had been a remaining scent in the alley along with the piece of pen. It was a brand of aftershave--also not cheap. It had a strong, musky odor, one that lingered long after the man wearing it was gone. Obviously, they were looking for a very tall rich man with a distinctive smell.

Elaine smiled at them when they came from the lab, where the print tests had proved inconclusive, her eyes sparkling.

"Hey, guys."

"Hi, Elaine." Ray was all business once more. "Can you get me a list of stores that might sell a pen like...where's the pen, Benny?"

Fraser searched his pockets and came out with the fractured pen. This he gave to Elaine, who grinned at him and said to Ray, "It might take me awhile."

"Thank you kindly, Elaine."

"Anytime, Frase. Ray, you owe me one."

"Yeah, yeah. Add it to my tab. We'll be in the Riv. Call us if you find anything."

"Where are we going, Ray?" Fraser asked as they left the station once more.

"Lunch." Ray grinned. "We can't do anything until Elaine gets that list of stores, and I'm starving. Frannie was on the warpath this morning, so I slipped out without breakfast."

"Understood." Fraser had seen some of Ray and Frannie's fights, and a person would be crazy not to want to avoid one of them. It always amazed him how two people could love each other so much and be so vicious to each other. "Oh, and Ray?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we drop by the Consulate on the way? I forgot something this morning."

"What? Hair gel?" At Fraser's level look, he laughed and answered, "Sure, Benny. Whatever you want."


	3. Chapter 3

Rage: The Thunder Rolls

By Tanya Reed

Disclaimer: I do not own Due South or any of its characters.

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It was turning into a long day. Every time either Turnbull or Ovitz looked at her, she cringed. She almost believed that there was a difference in the way they acted towards her, though she knew that was unlikely. Turnbull was too dim to know anything that wasn't told to him outright and Ovitz--well, if Ovitz saw weakness, he attacked it, and not very subtly either. So, Meg kept telling herself that she was paranoid. No one else knew of her weakness. That at least was a relief.

Tiredly, she ran fingers over her temples. It was hard being here, almost too hard. She didn't feel like the self sufficient, rock solid Inspector. Instead, she felt like a broken woman who twitched in fear at every sound. Angrily, she grit her teeth. If she had anything to say about it, no one would know of her shame. She would pretend to be the woman deserving of their respect that she had been mere days ago.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Meg didn't know if it frightened her or if it relieved her. Carefully, she put on her 'Inspector face'. It wasn't always easy to maintain such a face--like when she wanted to take Fraser into her arms and kiss him for finding her mother's brooch, or when she wanted to thank him profusely for rescuing her from the clutches of Henri Cloutier--and now would be one of the hardest times she'd ever experienced.

"Yes?"

Fraser came in, his hat in his hands. "Ma'am?"

"What is it, Fraser?"

She thought he'd be gone with that Vecchio friend of his for at least several hours. What was he doing back at the Consulate?

Turnbull she could keep things from and Ovitz she could lie to, but Fraser's clear eyed gaze seemed to see through everything. He seemed to accept her story that morning but every time he looked into her face, there was a chance...

_Hold on to your mask, Meg_, she told herself firmly.

"I was just wondering how you were feeling, sir. First days back after being sick can be somewhat of a drain."

Meg felt the color go from her face as she peered at him. She cleared her throat.

_If I hadn't been drinking...I will _never _drink again. Ever_.

"I think I'll live, Fraser. Aren't you supposed to be out saving Chicago or something?"

"Yes, sir," he replied smoothly, ignoring her sarcasm. "Detective Vecchio is waiting for me. I just forgot my..."

"Nevermind, Fraser."

What was going on behind those eyes of his? His mask was easily as good as hers, and probably hid a lot more. In a way, she felt a certain kinship with Fraser. Not only did they share all those things she had pointed out on the train, they also shared a need to keep their thoughts and feelings private. Each of them donned a protective face when they got up in the morning, though Fraser seemed to reach through his to touch people more easily than she could. Someday, maybe he would show her what lay beneath his 'Mountie face'. Who knew, she might even let him see under hers--if there was anything left.

"You are dismissed," she added when he showed no signs of moving. Did he look at her a little more closely than usual?

"Yes, sir." With a slight nod, he was gone from her office and, in a sudden perversity, Meg wished he would come back and... _And what, Meg? _she asked herself harshly. _Comfort you? Oh, yeah. That would be great--watching the respect he has for you turn to pity. That's all you need. At least this way you can pretend to deserve his respect. Are you prepared to accept his pity?_

She knew she was not. It would just hurt way too much. She just hoped her mask was good enough to keep it from him.

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Fraser and Ray were driving in the Riv after a most satisfying meal when the call came from Elaine. The feeling of wrongness Fraser had experienced earlier had come back to him during the meal and he was absently trying to place it. It was forgotten again as soon as he heard Elaine's voice.

"I've found what you were looking for."

"What did you find, Elaine?"

"Is Fraser there?"

"Yes, Elaine. Now, what did you find?"

"Well." There was a shuffling of papers. "There are only two stores in Chicago that sell this pen. They go for $200 a pop. One is Stationary Blues at 28 SouthWest and the other is Bells, Bows, and Ribbons at 57 Park. Both of them have none in stock. They order them on demand."

Ray and Fraser shared a look and the latter said, "Thank you, kindly, Elaine."

"No problem, Fraser."

"Now, Ray, all we have to do is find out who bought one of these pens from either of these stores in the past six months."

"Six months? Why six months?"

"This is a relatively new style of pen, made in Germany. Though they've been in Canada for the past year, they've only been imported to the United States for the past six months."

"Why would Canada get them first?"

"Well, believe it or not, Ray, there are some things that Canada imports that the United States does not, some examples are Kinder Surprise Eggs and chocolate Smarties."

"Yeah, okay Fraser, I get it. What were those addresses again?"

"28 South West Street and 57 Park Street."

Ray suddenly realized he was going the wrong way. Without a word to Fraser, he turned the wheel savagely, throwing his partner against the door. Fraser didn't even want to think about how many laws had just been broken, but Ray was Ray.

The first store they went to was Stationary Blues, where they discovered that both sales of the pen had been to women. Since the cologne Fraser had smelled was a man's fragrance, it was doubtful either of them was the killer. They took down their names and descriptions anyway, on the off chance one of them was the culprit, and headed to Bells, Bows, and Ribbons. There, they had more luck--four pen buyers. Three of these were men, and two were taller than six feet. Fraser and Ray took down their names--Tom Norton and Max Riker--sketchy descriptions and addresses. Their money was apparently good enough for the store, but not enough to keep the clerk's lips closed. Fraser and Ray didn't really mind.

"Now, what?" Ray asked as they got back in the car. "Interview the suspects?"

Fraser thought a moment and shook his head. "I'd like to look at the body, Ray. It will give me more information than the photographs--I should be able to pin point the man's height and weight more accurately."

"How?"

"The angle of the bruises," Fraser answered, giving a thoughtful frown.

Something...something...He reached for the thought that was forming in his mind, but it slipped away like water through his fingers.

"You all right, Fraser?"

"Just thinking."

Ray accepted this and started the car. Fraser gave a mental shrug. If it was important, the thought would come back to him.

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Ray had already seen the body. He had stared at her pretty young face and thought he must be getting old. Instead of finding her desirable, despite the multitude of bruises at her throat and the few scattered abrasions on her skin, he couldn't help seeing a dead child. They knew her to be eighteen, but to Ray she looked about twelve.

Since he had seen all he wanted to the first time, he hung back, letting Fraser clinically examine the body. The Mountie made several 'hmn' and 'Ah' sounds to himself. It never ceased to amaze Ray how something as simple as a piece of fabric could tell Fraser everything he wanted to know about a victim or a perp. Ray had a sneaking suspicion that Benny was a genius but he kept that to himself. It wouldn't do to give him a swelled head. Look what happened the last time! Firmly, Ray turned his mind from thoughts of being strapped to a bomb.

Fraser was licking the fingers of the body. Ray shuddered all over, wondering how Benny could taste things that were so repulsive. If that's what it took to be a genius, Ray would stay a dim wit, thank you.

Finally, Fraser was done looking at the dead hooker. He thanked the medical examiner politely before leading Ray out of the morgue.

"Did you learn anything?" the detective asked when the Mountie didn't volunteer any information.

"Yes, Ray. Several things. They had some red wine and pasta early in the evening. The lack of bruises on the rest of the body suggests that she was comfortable with him and was taken by surprise. The pen punctured the flesh of her stomach, and quite severely, but I don't think it was done purposely."

Ray listened, nodding, as they walked towards his desk.

"And, obviously, looking at the bruises on the body..." Suddenly, the thoughtful look on Benny's face turned to something else. His skin went completely white, and if he'd been a woman, Ray would have reached out to catch him. His voice came out in a strangled whisper as he repeated, "...the bruises on the body..."

Ray's eyes went over his best friend's face. Something had either scared the hell out of him or shocked the breath out of his body.

"Are you all right?" he asked in concern.

Fraser wasn't paying any attention to him. Instead, he was talking to himself. "To have bruises like that, someone would have to fall repeatedly, or..."

"Benny, what are you talking about? The woman was strangled."

Puzzlement made the detective want to shake the Mountie. Maybe Benny was finally losing it. Had he licked one to many disgusting substances?

The far away look that had come to Fraser's face when the color drained from it slipped away, and he focused on Ray once more. He looked almost surprised to see the detective there, even though he'd been talking to him moments before. The paleness of his face was slowly receding and a faint flush was staining his cheeks in its place.

There was a tightness in his voice as he said, "I have to go, Ray."

"Now? We haven't even captured the killer yet..." Ray's exasperated voice trailed off as he finally looked into his friend's eyes.

Ray's breath caught as he saw something hard and cold there, something he had never seen there before. And there was something else, something that caused the skin along the detective's backbone to prickle. A storm was growing there, rolling and burning. He could almost hear thunder, see lightening. Was that the beginning of rage? It was a look so foreign to Benny's eyes that he couldn't be certain. All he knew was that it was something more dangerous than he could even imagine. What exactly happened when a person who suppressed his emotions cracked?

In fascination, he heard Benny say calmly, "Yes, Ray. You must excuse me. I'm confident that you can catch the assailant on your own."

As Ray, still reeling, watched Fraser walk away, he remembered the feeling that had seared through him when he had come upon that snake attacking his sister. And he remembered what happened afterward.

With this memory, a stone-like certainty settled in his gut. Fraser was going to kill somebody.


	4. Chapter 4

Rage: The Thunder Rolls

by Tanya Reed

Here's another chapter, folks. It's kind of short. Hope you like it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Due South.

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How could he have been so stupid? It had been there all along and he had missed it--overlooked it because he wanted to believe the lie. It was easier and safer to believe the lie.

As Fraser moved through the streets, barely noticing people or places as he went, his mind went back to the station. One moment, he was talking to Ray, explaining what he had learned from that poor child's body, and the next his mind was focusing on the prostitute's bruises. He had a moment of total clarity as something clicked. It came to him, like a slap, what had been bothering him all day.

Bruises...It was the bruises...Just thinking of it rolled Fraser's stomach. Yes, he had had an epiphany, and it was an ugly one. It stole his breath and froze his blood as the pictures started racing through his mind. Her bruises. It was not the prostitute's bruises that tortured him, as disturbing as they were, but the ones that he had wanted to kiss away just that morning. If only he had paid more attention or looked beyond her words. He had seen three. How many were there that he didn't see? Had she been moving stiffly? Was she in pain? Fraser grit his teeth. Blind fool.

She said she had fallen once--against a coffee table. He had accepted this because she said it, and he trusted her more than anyone else--with the possible exceptions of Ray or Dief. Somehow he had forgotten her fear of being weak and her tendency of doing anything to protect her inner self, that sweet inner self that was so rarely glimpsed and so greatly cherished. She had hid her vulnerability, afraid that Fraser would see it, and he fell for her blind like any innocent duck.

Fraser thought the fire inside of him might eat him alive as he thought about what he now knew. It all made sense. Inspector Thatcher had gone on a date, called in sick for two days with bruises so varied and scattered that each one must have been caused by a separate blow. How could he have done it? Anyone who knew the Inspector knew how much she valued her pride and self control. For her, dignity was everything. Her sense of self revolved around her dignity and ability to control her surroundings. For someone to rip that dignity away, tearing at the tenderness beneath...

She must be shattered.

This thought echoed over and over in his mind as he pictured it. His heart cried out, trying to make his mind stop the torture, but it mercilessly continued. It was his punishment for allowing this to happen.

The stairs in his building seemed to echo his steps with thunder as he raced up to his apartment. How could that Burrell person have taken it all from her? That is what angered him the most. How could he have looked at that sweet face--adorable even in strict reprimand--and hit her? That he could knowingly rip away a person's self respect, especially someone like Meg's...

He had to get out of his uniform. The red serge, even the weight of his Stetson, burned his skin right through his underclothes. They were holding him, trying to soothe him. Fraser didn't want to be calm. He didn't want to be strapped in by duty and ideals and his country. He wanted to...he wanted to..._And for once, God dammit_, he thought, _I'm going to chose what I want over what's right_!

The uniform slid off like butter.

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The shaking began when she got in the car. It started with her hands, and she was helpless to stop it. With horror, Meg took her hands off the wheel and stared at them.

It had all seemed so nice. About a month ago, she had run into Glen in the supermarket. Shocked to see someone from her hometown in Chicago, she had gone up to him. He had surprised her by picking her up right there in the frozen foods section and giving her a tremendous bear hug. Meg hadn't seen him since high school and she was pleased to note he was even more handsome than ever.

He had asked her out and she had gone. They had a wonderful time, so a couple of weeks later, they did it again. Glen was rich and treated her wonderfully. She felt like a princess when she was out with him.

_Yeah, right, a princess_. Meg leaned forward, placing her warm forehead on the steering wheel. _Some princess. Well, it could have been worse, Meg. He could have forced himself on you instead of using you for a punching bag_.

Everything had changed the other night. It had started out the same, but instead of dinner or a play, they had gone out dancing. It was grand while it lasted and both of them had a little too much to drink. They went to her apartment by cab for a nightcap.

Flashes of remembered pain went through Meg and she clenched her hands into fists.

"_Bitch."_

_"What?" She turned a little unsteadily, surprise furrowing her brow._

_His backhand caught her by surprise, and she could not keep on her wobbly feet. A shot of pain went through her as the tender flesh below her ribs connected with the corner of her coffee table. She cried out as his shoe bit violently into her back._

_"Get up, woman! You're supposed to be a Mountie!"_

Meg tried to push the images from her mind, but they would not go away. She could still feel the hard cruelty of his hands on her skin. Of course, she had tried to fight back, but it seemed that alcohol had severely limited her responses. Instead of defending herself, she ended up hitting firm objects--the walls, the entertainment centre, the coffee table, his knuckles--over and over again.

Biting her lip, Meg attempted to ignore the voice in her head. _You should have been able to subdue him anyway. You're a Mountie, dammit! You should be stripped of that uniform_!

Between the voice and the memories, she hadn't been able to relax for days. If anyone found out...She could just imagine the smirks behind her back, the knowing glances, the false sympathy.

With a groan, Meg managed to start her car. She got control of her trembling, looking furtively around to see if anyone had seen her moment of weakness. The word 'weakness' echoed in her head like thunder as she pulled out of her parking space and headed home.

It would be another long night.


	5. Chapter 5

Rage: The Thunder Rolls

by Tanya Reed

I hope everyone's enjoying the story so far. This chapter is my favorite.

Disclaimer: For some reason, no one will give Due South to me, so I still don't own it.

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For the first time, not wearing the uniform made him feel free. Constable Benton Fraser was so much of who he was that when he wasn't wearing the uniform, he usually felt incomplete. Now, he didn't want to be The Mountie, he wanted to be just Ben Fraser--a man trying to protect someone he cared about.

As he approached Glen Burrell's apartment, the scenes continued to torment him. He saw flesh hitting flesh, a delicate face etched in pain. The sounds filled his ears, loud and insistent. They blocked out the physical world around him, flooding him with anger. Clenching his fists, he fought to control it. He just wanted the pictures to stop.

Taking a deep breath, finally mastering himself, Ben knocked on the door. It was opened almost immediately by a tall, good looking man with a pleasant smile. Fraser was grateful for his training, it was all that kept him from busting in without finding out if he was in the right place.

"Mr. Glen Burrell?"

"Yes," the handsome man answered, the smile remaining on his face.

He looked so friendly, so benign. Ben could have trusted this man, he could have taken him for a friend. It wasn't right. Someone who hurt people shouldn't look so...so normal. "May I help you?"

Ben nodded politely, offering his hand. "My name is Benton Fraser. May I talk to you a moment?"

Glen shook it, then gestured for him to enter. "Certainly, come in."

Ben walked in casually, looking around the man's apartment. It was neat and nicely furnished, a touch Spartan but at the same time open and welcoming . There were pictures of children on the coffee table.

"I've wanted to talk to you for several days," Ben lied smoothly, forcing his own face to remain pleasant.

"Really?...Now that you mention it, your name sounds familiar. Do we have a mutual friend?"

"Yes, we do," Ben admitted, turning from him. "You have a nice apartment."

"Thank you. Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Fraser?"

Ben wasn't listening to him, he was watching the scenes in his head. Was she here? Is this where it happened--this seemingly benign and cheerful room? Was it that coffee table that she sliced her collarbone on? Had her face hit that wall? Rage, more rage than he had ever felt before stirred in his belly, releasing his tenuous grip on control. Once it ignited, it blazed outwards, quickly claiming his veins. From there, it raced through his entire body, enflaming him right to his core. This man had hurt Meg. His Meg. The woman whose greatest fear was loss of control or dignity. He had stolen both from her and given her bruises as some sort of trophy.

He had enjoyed mastering her, taking away everything she valued about herself. He had hurt her body, and something that would not heal as quickly--her soul. This man...This man... Fraser was shaking. He slowly looked down at his hands, releasing his remaining thread of control.

_He will never hurt her again._

With this thought, he whirled and put his fist firmly in Glen's stomach. The man let out a satisfying grunt as Ben demanded, "So, you like to hit women, eh?"

Glen doubled over, and Fraser didn't give him the chance to straighten. He hit him again.

"How does it feel?"

Ben reveled in the feel of his knuckles striking the other man's cheek. Glen fell heavily, the look on his face one of surprise and fear.

"Who _are_ you?"

"I told you. My name is Ben Fraser, and I don't like men who hit women."

Glen ducked Ben's next swing, rolling away from him on the rug.

"What are you talking about?"

His next punch didn't miss. It landed squarely in Burrell's eye, throwing him against the side of the coffee table. The pictures fell unnoticed to the floor.

"Meg Thatcher."

As the businessman tried unsteadily to rise, he asked, "Are you the reason she hasn't returned my calls? I thought there was someone else. Our last date ended..."

The rest of his sentence was cut off as his breath whooshed out of him in response to a boot to his diaphragm. Fraser grabbed a hold of his gasping body and dragged him to his feet. He shook him violently then pushed him onto the couch.

"Tell me what happened." Ben's voice was steel.

"What...what do you mean?"

"What did you do to her?"

"Nothing," Glen protested. "Did she tell you some bull story about me? I know our date was bad, but..."

Fraser reached forward and gripped the man's chin in his hand. He could feel the man's jaw through his fingers and wondered if it was possible to break it just by squeezing.

"Tell me."

"I never hit her."

Ben's eyes narrowed as he observed Glen's face. The man was lying. It was written there plainly. That lie made what he had done all the worse. To take away all that a person was and then lie about it...

With a swift flash of his fist, Glen's head lashed back. Blood, red as Ben's serge, poured from his nose, running down his face. Finally deciding to fight back, Glen rose and threw a punch of his own. Fraser ducked it easily, elbowing the man in the sensitive area below his ribs. The time for questions was over. As Glen doubled over, Ben used the same elbow on the side of his head.

"What's going on?"

The voice behind Benton startled him and allowed Glen to hit him with a tackle. The two of them fell to the floor, Burrell's blood dripping on Ben's face. They grappled for a moment, while Ben tried to ignore the figure of his father standing nearby.

"What are you doing, son?"

"Nice of you to drop by, Dad," Ben gasped, managing to throw Burrell off of him. When the millionaire tried to come back, he kicked him in the groin.

"Is this the man that..."

"Shut up," he told his father, getting to his knees. Glen was curled in a little ball, groaning. The blood flow from his nose was starting to slow.

Using a chair, Ben pulled himself to his feet. Shaking his head as if for clarity, he went over and kicked Glen in the ribs.

"I didn't teach you to kick a man when he's down. Honour, son, honour."

Glen grabbed Fraser's boot, trying to pull him down. Fraser tottered but didn't fall. As soon as he was sure of his footing, he kicked the man again, with his other foot.

"Get up!"

When he didn't, Ben took his arm and pulled him to his feet once more. Then, he hit him with his fist again, depositing him in the chair recently used for leverage.

"Stop it." Bob Fraser's voice was firm. "You'll kill him."

Fraser hissed. "So what if I do?"

"Are you prepared to live with the consequences?"

With a rough backhand, Ben gave Burrell's lip a cut to match his broken nose.

"He hurt her."

"I know that, son. He hurt her body. He hurt her pride. That's no excuse for murder."

"He deserves to pay."

Ben was standing over Glen, who was blinking blearily. He clenched and unclenched his hands several times, wondering if he would indeed kill this man.

"But vigilante justice?"

"The only justice. She will never report him. She's too ashamed. He knew that, damn him."

"It's still wrong, Benton."

Drawing in a shaking breath, Fraser softly asked, "What would you have done if it were Mom?"

The older Fraser frowned in puzzlement. "I don't see what that has to do with...Oh."

Ben saw the understanding come to his eyes. "Go away, Dad."

With a sigh, he nodded. "Understood."

Turning his attention back to Burrell, Ben noticed that the man had slipped into unconsciousness. Looking at him this way, the anger slowly started to drain from Ben. His father was right, this was wrong. But he was sure Glen Burrell would never hurt Meg again.

Taking several more deep breaths, Ben slowly pulled the tattered remains of his control inward. As they settled into place, his hands ceased their trembling and his face resumed its mask. The pictures continued to play in his head.

He walked unsteadily towards the door, noting for the first time the sting in his cheek. Burrell had managed to cut him slightly as they grappled on the floor.

Ray was waiting for him in the hallway. Somehow, Ben knew he would be, though why this was so he couldn't say.

"Are you all right, Benny? What happened?"

"I'm perfectly fine, Ray. Have you found the prostitute's killer?"

"Not yet. I was waiting for you."

"Then let's head back to the station, shall we?"

Ray said something in the affirmative, but Fraser wasn't sure what. He headed to the Riv, lost in his thoughts, and so he didn't realize his face was full of blood or notice Ray go forward to look wide-eyed into Glen Burrell's apartment.

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Meg sat huddled at the end of her couch. Slowly, she sipped her tea--boiled, not steeped, just the way her mom used to make it--trying not to look at the room around her. She should have stayed at work. At least there, the furniture didn't mock her and remind her of remembered pain. She could not look at her coffee table without thinking of the way it bit into her flesh. Just the sight of the entertainment centre seemed to make her shoulder throb.

Her hands tightened on her cup. The voice in her head began chiding her again, and Meg closed her eyes. That only seemed to make things worse. In her mind, she could see him looming over her, his face completely changed by drink.

"A bath," she told herself softly, "A nice hot bath will make you feel better."

She got up slowly, because her body still ached, and placed her cup on the floor. Meg refused to touch the coffee table.

Moving to the back of the apartment, the band around her chest seemed to loosen slightly. _He_ had never been this far. It became almost easy to breathe, and Meg gave a sigh of relief as she dug in her drawers for some comfortable clothes. Finding these, and a towel and facecloth, Meg moved to the bathroom just down the hall. She closed the door firmly, a knot suddenly forming in her stomach. Just when she had been starting to unclench--it couldn't be called relaxing because she found it impossible to relax--she remembered the mirror.

Meg had always loved the floor length mirror that came with her apartment. It allowed her to model new outfits and admire all parts of a male companion's form--in the rare times she actually had one with her in the bathroom--but now it seemed like a device set there to torture her. She hadn't been brave enough to look in it yet, knowing what she would see there. Tonight, though, tonight she would force herself to do it.

"You have to face this sometime," she whispered, ignoring the voice that was telling her what a wimp she was.

Meg turned and faced the mirror, then slowly and deliberately began to undress. She winced as the first bruise at her collarbone was uncovered but kept on, purposefully undoing the rest of the buttons on her shirt. She bit her lip as the fabric slid away, revealing her mottled skin. She examined it closely, noting the purple, black, blue, and yellow marks. There were so many.

Gently, she touched the tender spot where her ribs joined.

"Look what he did to you."

The rest of the clothes came off more easily, though what was uncovered was no more pleasant. Again the impotent anger burned inside of her and her eyes began to sting. She refused to cry.

Once naked, her brown eyes took in the whole of her body, investigating every bruise as if it were an important clue in a case. Some of them were fading. Some were mingled with cuts and scratches. Some looked like her skin could never possibly turn white again.

_What a fright you are_, the voice said, and she wondered idly if it was Henri Cloutier speaking to her from so far away. She realized that that's who the voice sounded like--the voice that haunted her every minute of the day, pointing out her weakness.

Meg reached nearby to the small shelf that held her hairbrush. She picked it up, feeling her hands began to tremble once more. Letting the anger come, she felt it well up, burning through her limbs. She lashed out violently, her hairbrush smashing into the glass of the mirror. Three times, she pounded, ignoring the shards of glass that pierced her skin.

"You make me sick," she hissed. "I never want to see you again!"

The mirror destroyed, Meg backed away, sitting on the floor by the tub. Like a turtle going into its shell, she pulled herself into a tight little ball, forgetting all about her bath.


	6. Chapter 6

Rage: The Thunder Rolls

by Tanya Reed

Here's the conclusion. The sequel "Weakness" will soon follow.

Disclaimer: Due South belongs to someone other than me.

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He had called 911 while Fraser was waiting in the car. How could he not? It almost seemed like a betrayal of his best friend, but seeing the broken apartment and the unconscious, bleeding man, he could do nothing else. He told them that his name was Detective Ray Vecchio and, when going to see a friend of a friend, he had come across the badly beaten man. There was no mention of Fraser.

As he rode the elevator back to the posh lobby, Ray wondered what had happened. He knew this was something he could never ask Fraser. Pondering, he thought about what he knew. It was something about bruises that made Benny go ballistic on this guy, which led Ray to believe that Burrell had inflicted bruises on someone Fraser knew. Since Ray only knew of two people Fraser and Burrell both knew, and Elaine had seemed perfectly fine...

"The Dragon Lady," he whispered.

With a nod, the detective accepted this. He knew more about Benny's feelings for Thatcher than his friend would ever give him credit for. So, the scum had hurt the Dragon Lady. What Ray couldn't figure out was why _she_ hadn't killed him.

Pushing all knowledge from his face, Ray approached his car. He looked at his friend sitting in the front seat, ignoring the wolf who had traveled with Ray. For the first time Ray could remember, Fraser was a mess. His usually immaculate hair was standing in several different directions and his clothes were ripped and wrinkled. There was dried blood on his face. Most of it wasn't his.

"You know, Benny," Ray said, sliding into the driver's seat. "It's after hours. What d'you say we call off the man hunt until tomorrow? I'm tired, you're tired, Dief's tired..."

"What do you mean, Ray? I feel fine."

_Like hell_, Ray thought, saying, "Maybe so, but you look like crap."

With a frown, Fraser turned the review mirror so he could look in it. "Maybe you're right."

"I know I am. Besides, Dief's stomach's growling so loud I can't concentrate anyway."

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She looked so fragile, almost like a lost child, as she walked in. Her eyes were downcast and the bruise on her cheek showed sharply against her pale skin.

Fraser was surprised to see her there. He hadn't known she would come. Quickly, his eyes roamed her form, searching for all of her visible hurts. He purposely avoided her eyes, knowing what he'd find there, but eventually they were all he had left.

Taking a breath, hoping Meg couldn't hear it, he raised his eyes to hers. Immediately, he wanted to look away, but he couldn't. Broken. She was broken. Shattered pieces of her self respect mingled with a pain so profound it tore his heart to shreds. She wasn't the Inspector as she stood there--not that strong, proud woman whose sarcasm could cut deeper than a sword. Instead, she was his Meg, hurt and frightened and longing for what little comfort he could give.

He loved her then, loved her more than at any other time he could remember.

He reached for her, not speaking, drawing her into his arms. She shuddered there, stiffening, before gradually relaxing into his embrace. Fraser held her, stroking her hair, trying to will all that had happened away. This was one lesson she should never have had to learn.

After a moment, she spoke. "I'm not...I'm not who you think."

"It's all right," he soothed, his arms tightening. "I know what he did to you."

"I couldn't stop him," she said softly into his shoulder. "I...I couldn't stop him."

"Let it go." He loosed her, his hand tracing her cheek. When she would not look at him, he led her -- unresisting -- to the bed. Propriety, rank, protocol, they were all nothing here as he sat and drew her into his lap.

"What kind of officer am I?" she demanded harshly, allowing his arms to circle her again. "What kind of woman?"

A tear slipped from her control and slid slowly down her cheek.

Fraser brushed it away with gentle fingertips, feeling the shaking of her delicate form through her clothes. He pulled her closer, tucking her dark head under his chin. Carefully, he began to rock.

"It was not your fault..."

"I should have been stronger. I just wasn't strong enough."

"He hurt you," Ben said softly, continuing to rock. "Being hurt is not a crime, Meg. I've been there. Victoria."

At his mention of the woman who had almost destroyed him, Meg's arms wrapped around him tightly. He didn't know if she responded to the hurt in his voice or if she just needed something to hold on to.

Fraser wanted to fill her face with tender kisses, wiping away all memories of rough hands and cruel words.

"Let me..." His voice failed him and he paused before starting again. "Let me love your pain away."

Ben awoke with a start, finding himself alone in a dark, silent apartment. The shock of the transition made him reach for her in the darkness. A dream. It had been a dream. The other side of his small cot was as cold as death. She had never been there.

It was hard to let go of the dream, to realize that she had not come to him to help her through her pain. Something squeezed his heart and an aching for her settled around him. If he was alone, then so was she.

What was she thinking? What was she feeling? Had she been able to sleep? Ben had a feeling that she hadn't. Her insecurity would be tormenting her even more than those pictures haunted him. It was a horrible, gnawing feeling to know that she was so far away. He couldn't take her in his arms and hold her like he longed to, and love every memory of that Burrell man from her mind.

Ben hugged himself, the longing to act in real life as he had in his dream becoming almost unbearable. He could see her, bruised and battered, needing someone but too proud to ask for comfort. Damn her pride, and damn his own! If he could just show her how much respect and lo...His mind pushed the latter thought away and began again. If he could just show her how much respect he still had for her, maybe she would be all right. Instead, here he was--alone--dreaming of doing what he wanted but afraid of her violent reaction if he did; and there she was--alone--telling herself over and over again that she had failed some sort of test and proven herself unworthy. Nothing he could do would bridge the gap between and allow him to comfort her, and that was the saddest thing of all.

A big, gusty sigh escaped him. Two things had been taken from him as well--his control and now his sleep. Somehow, they seemed like a little enough price to pay for her. Carefully, he took out the knowledge that had been forced with his loss of control and examined it again. One good thing had come out of this, and though she may never know it, he knew it. That was enough. The memory of Victoria could no longer hurt him. She had been replaced.

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Ray sat at his desk, staring at the files in his hands. One was for Tom Norton and the other was for Max Riker. He had picked Fraser up and the two of them had arrived at the station just minutes before. Fraser had gone to the cafeteria to get some milk and Ray had headed to his desk, where he found the files Elaine had laid out for him. Since Fraser didn't have to be at the Consulate until after dinner, they decided to get right to their suspects, with Fraser finally letting Ray know what the bruises had told him--besides the fact that some slime bucket had given his boss a once over.

As Ray sat waiting for Fraser, Elaine approached. There was a frown on her pretty features, and he could tell there was something on her mind.

"Morning, Elaine."

"I heard you found Glen Burrell beaten in his apartment last night, Ray. Is he going to be okay?"

Ray shrugged. "I don't know."

"I'm going to drop by to see him in the hospital after work. I wonder who did it."

Carefully, Ray put down his files, mentally forming his next question. "You're not involved with him, are you?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but no." she said with disgust. "He's just a friend of my brother's. Besides, he's seeing that Dragon Lady of Fraser's. He's kind of cute though."

Ray mumbled, "He wasn't last night."

"What?"

"Nothing, Elaine. Who's assigned to the case? Do they have any leads?"

"Huey and Dewey. Ask them." She gestured with her thumb.

"Thank you kindly, Elaine," Ray said in his best Fraser imitation.

This elicited a snort from her as she turned and walked away.

Ray was going to get up and approach the Duck Boys, but he saw Fraser coming in with his carton of milk. Ray could not help but notice, for the second time that morning, the smudges of black underneath his friend's eyes. He also looked paler than normal, but other than that, there were no indications that he had lost it the day before.

"Ready, Fraser? Got your calcium intake for the day?"

"Ready, Ray," he replied, settling into his usual chair.

"We got files on both of these guys, though not long ones. Norton got into a bit of trouble when he was a kid, just little stuff. He grew up poor but fought his way up. Riker was suspected in a fraud scam a little while back, but he was found innocent. A couple of Norton's offenses involved violence."

Fraser ran a knuckle over his eyebrow before asking, "Which one is left handed?"

"Left handed?" Ray was startled for a moment, but quickly covered it. He opened the files and searched the information, wondering if it would be there.

"Oh, here it is. Riker."

"He's..." Fraser paused, tilting his head as he converted for Ray's benefit. "Six foot three."

"Yup."

"230 pounds?"

"Right again."

"He's our man."

Ray snapped the files shut and rose, knowing Fraser was rarely wrong. It was time to pay Max Riker a visit.

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Meg was at her desk trying to work when her phone buzzed. She put down her paperwork, which concerned...Meg realized she didn't know _what_ it concerned. She had just been staring at it for the past half hour. Tiredly, she rubbed her eyes with one hand, reaching for the phone with the other.

"What is it, Turnbull?"

"There's a call for you, sir. A nice young woman."

"All right," she sighed. At least she could forget paperwork for a minute. "Put her through."

After an audible click, she continued, "Inspector Meg Thatcher, Canadian Consulate, may I help you?"

"Hi," The voice was soft and hesitant, "My name is Elaine Besbriss. I'm not sure if you've heard of me or not."

Meg frowned. "Your name does sound rather familiar. How may I help you?"

"Well..." The voice hesitated again, as if she wasn't sure how to begin. "I didn't know if anyone bothered to tell you. I thought you might be worried."

Meg straightened, her tiredness draining away. "What happened?"

Was it Fraser? He hadn't arrived yet and there were so many dangers out there in the Chicago streets. Every day, though she'd never tell them, she was afraid that either Fraser or Turnbull would leave the Consulate and never come back to her.

"It's Glen. I know you've been dating him..."

"Glen," Meg breathed, a shiver going through her whole body.

"Glen Burrell. You are dating him, aren't you?"

Meg tried to speak and failed. Clearing her throat, she tried again. "We...we went out a couple of times."

"Well, someone attacked him yesterday."

Meg's mind was wrenched from the mental images brought on by the mention of his name.

"Attacked?"

"Yes. In his own apartment too. He's in the hospital now, still unconscious, but they think he's going to make it."

"Oh." She wasn't sure how she felt about that. Disappointed? No, she couldn't be disappointed that someone hadn't died--even him. She could not bring herself to feel sorry for him, however. In fact, it was almost a form of elation to know that someone had treated him the same way he had treated her.

"So, anyway," Elaine was saying, "I thought you should know. I work at the police station with Ray--you know, Ray Vecchio?--if you decide you want his room number. They are allowing him a few visitors."

"Do they...do they know who did it?"

"Not yet, but they're working on it. Huey and Dewey are checking out his apartment right now."

There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but instead she said, "Thank you for calling," and hung up.

She sat in thoughtful silence for a few minutes, wondering whose father, brother, boyfriend, son, or sister had finally decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. Meg wished that she could have been there to see the look on Glen's face as someone hit him over and over. Just imagining it gave her a feeling of profound satisfaction. Knowing that he'd hurt no one else for awhile was nice too.

She picked up her pen, chewing her lip. Would the memories never go away? Firmly, she pushed them aside for what seemed like the millionth time that day--and it was what, nine thirty?--and started to fill in the forms.

Meg had filled in a whole three lines when a thought struck her so hard she dropped her pen.

"Fraser," a voice whispered in her mind, and she froze.

Fraser? Could it have been Fraser? What if he had seen through her lies, and...Meg shook her head sharply. No. It couldn't have been Fraser. She closed her eyes and carefully replayed her conversations with him. He had been his usual calm, charming, and unemotional self. His face and eyes had shown no sense of knowledge, and his concern seemed completely neutral. Besides, she chided herself, Fraser was not the type to go around busting heads. Even the thought made her blush. What was she, some damsel in distress and Fraser some red knight rescuer? Had she fallen _that_ far?

Admitting that she was being ridiculous, Meg picked up her pen, which seemed to be broken. Had she squeezed it? With a frown, she studied the ink running over her fingers.

_Meg, _she thought, Lately,_ you have worse luck than a moose in a nick knack store. Think you can at least hold it together to get through the day?_

She got up to put the pen in the garbage can, trying not to notice that the ink on her fingers was the color of bruised flesh. _Will everything remind me of him until the day I die?_ Once it was deposited, she kept going to the door. There she paused before opening it and peeking outside.

"Turnbull?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Can you tell Fraser I'd like to see him when he gets in?"

"Certainly, sir." He sounded too damn cheerful.

Turning to go back into her office, Meg had only one thought for herself.

_Fool._

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The knock on her door startled her. Meg had finally been able to submerge herself in her work, and the outside world had faded for awhile.

She blinked, putting down the report she was reading, and barely remembered to snatch the glasses off of her nose. Securing these in her desk, she said crisply, "Come in."

It was Fraser. Of course, she knew it would be, but the knowledge of Fraser and the reality of Fraser were two different things. Somehow, she always seemed to be surprised that he was exactly as she remembered him.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

Meg studied him carefully, starting with his face. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary there. His 'Mountie face' was perfectly controlled, no hint of any emotion present at all. Those beautiful eyes of his were intense, as if the whole universe merged in their depths, but that was not unusual. His posture was respectful, his appearance immaculate. There were no hints of worry or change in attitude. He was just Fraser.

"Yes, Fraser. Come in." She wondered if he could see her bruise now. The ones on her torso and arms and legs she could cover, but the one on her face was there for anyone with eyes to see. "How are your plans for entertaining Mr. Rouleau's son coming along? He will be here in less than a week."

She saw puzzlement pass over his features, but he replied, "I have asked Ray to think of some entertaining places for children in the city. He has agreed to have them in my hands by Friday. I will be better able to make my plans at that juncture, ma'am."

"Yes, I'm sure you will, Constable," she said absently, wondering how to work a certain something into the conversation.

"Is there anything else, sir?"

Her eyes searched his face once more as she decided to just take the plunge. "Yes, actually. I wanted to inform you that I may be away for awhile this afternoon. You see, someone I know was badly beaten yesterday and I may go to see him in the hospital."

She carefully continued to watch Fraser's face, but nothing there changed. "I was informed that he will recover, but as yet he is unconscious and so has not identified his attacker."

Fraser didn't even look faintly interested. "You would like me to remain at the Consulate this afternoon, Ma'am."

"That would be nice, Fraser." She bit her lip as she realized that came out sounding very sarcastic. Sarcastic was not the way she wanted to go with this. "Um...I can't get over how strange it is for someone to have gone into Glen's home," It was hard to say his name. She almost choked hearing it come from her own lips, but she continued, "and beat him like that. I mean, what reason could they have?"

Fraser shrugged. "I don't know, ma'am."

With an inward sigh, Meg gave up. There was no way she was going to get Fraser to have any reaction to her words. She felt slightly disappointed at that, though she tried to tell herself she didn't. No matter how self sufficient she was--which was not much right now--Fraser always seemed to bring out her buried longing to be cherished. Closing the subject in her mind, calling herself a fool again, she waited for Fraser to ask her if he could be dismissed. He didn't, of course. Instead, he just stood there studying her frankly, making a flush come to her face.

Flustered, she waved her hand. "Of course not. You are dismissed, Constable."

He nodded and walked to the door. She was still watching him closely, so she saw him put his hand on the knob, hesitate, then begin to turn back towards her. Meg looked down, pretending to be absorbed in her work. She even peered at it as if she were trying to see it without her glasses.

"Excuse me, ma'am."

"Yes, Fraser?"

She raised her eyes and a stillness went through her body. For one instant there was nothing hidden, nothing concealed. For the first time since they'd been on the train, she saw the real Fraser.

"No one should steal another person's dignity."

Then it was gone, and so was he.

The End


End file.
